


it's sort of common wisdom

by elegantstupidity



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-23 07:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 4,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6109794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elegantstupidity/pseuds/elegantstupidity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>fic collection originally posted on tumblr</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Table of Contents

2\. **[insert manicure emoji here] -** BFF February Flash Fic Contest, prompt: hands - modern AU

3. **if there's future in these lines**  - BFF February Flash Fic Contest, prompt: hands - future!canon

4.  **as sure as tomorrow** \- BFF March Flash Fic Contest, prompt: dreams - S1E10 "I Am Become Death"

5.  **(when we're asleep) we can do almost anything** - BFF March Flash Fic Contest, prompt: dreams - Inception AU

6.  **we get to overthrow the government** \- BFF April Flash Fic Contest, prompt: revolution - political AU, dialogue only

7.  **no one writes letters anymore** \- BFF May Flash Fic Contest, prompt: epistolary - texting

8.  **Sun's Out, Guns Out** - BFF May Flash Fic Contest, prompt: epistolary - college AU

9.  **where the heart is** \- BFF September Flash Fic Contest, prompt: home - future!canon

10.  **Good Game. Screw You. Good Game.** - BFF September Flash Fic Contest, prompt: home - modern AU

11.  **check this box for "yes"** - BFF October Flash Fic Contest, prompt: freedom - high school AU

12.  **a place to stay** - BFF October Flash Fic Contest, prompt: freedom - future!canon

13.  **we should count time by heart-throbs** \- BFF December Flash Fic Contest, prompt: breathe - future!fic


	2. [insert manicure emoji here]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> February Flash Fic Contest entry

_Does your nail art have to be so fucking complicated?_

If Bellamy weren’t so exhausted, he probably would have phrased his message more politely. Generally, he tried not to unleash his inner asshole unless someone really deserved it. Someone had to set an example for Octavia, after all.

But honestly? Cg_manicures definitely deserved it after the three hours he’d spent trying to replicate one of their posts on O. He’d given up at midnight and sent a pouty fourteen-year-old to bed, but spent the next two hours practicing on his own hand and glaring at the picture O provided for “inspiration.”

It was a nice picture—a galaxy swirling across each nail in amazing detail. It probably didn’t warrant the sheer hatred it was currently inspiring.

In a spurt of petty frustration, he’d sent a picture of his mangled nails and the gruff comment directly to cg_manicures and resolved to wash his hands of the issue.

(Figuratively. Because he had used the last of the cotton balls on O.)

In the morning, between getting Octavia to school and himself to the bookstore for work, Bellamy nearly forgot about looking for a reply from cg_manicures. Not that he expected one. They didn’t follow him, so there was no guarantee they even looked at his message.

To his utter surprise, a reply awaited him when he went through his notifications during his break.

_Did you even bother with the brush?_

_Yes,_ he tapped out, grinning a little at the attitude, _I was trying to practice for my sister. It looked better on her._

 _I hope so,_ came the response less than five minutes later. _It’s harder to do your own nails. I only ever do my right hand for posts._

Bellamy was still trying to figure out a non-pathetic way to ask for any tips when the bell above the door signaled a new customer.

The pretty blonde offered him a curt smile before disappearing into the shelves only to emerge a few minutes later and lay a heavy book on art history by the register. When she pulled out her wallet, Bellamy’s eyes caught on the nails of her right hand. 

Familiar swirling galaxies.

“Nice nails,” he managed to drawl. In all the time he’d spent staring at those hands, he’d never thought about the fact that they could be attached to a beautiful girl.

She smiled brightly in thanks and let her gaze drift down to his own nails to return the compliment. Bellamy watched as realization dawned.

“Yours could use some work,” she finally laughed, sticking out her hand. It was soft and warm in his own. “I’m Clarke and I make a pretty good nail art tutor.”

“Bellamy. I could probably use one of those or my sister might decide I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered.”

* * *

**_8av_a_ ** _thanks @CG_manicures for the awesome nails!!! @casusbellamy you’re fired!_

 **_cg_manicures_ ** _It’s okay @casusbellamy you can do my nails any time ;)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slightly edited from my original submission, but still under 500 words. 
> 
> also for once i didn't steal my title.
> 
> leave a comment and let me know what you think! Also, if you want to drop me a prompt, my tumblr is megaphonemonday


	3. if there's future in these lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> February Flash Fic Contest entry
> 
> ambiguous future canon au

“A reading for _Wanheda_?” came a crooning call from the shadowed doorway.

She’d had years to grow accustomed to the title, but Clarke doubted that decades would be enough. Hearing it turned her back into that scared and desperate girl, making bad decisions because the only alternatives were worse.

Years weren’t enough to reconcile herself to the legend of _wanheda_ , but they were enough to instill poise in its presence, allowing her to duck inside with a neutral expression.

(She heard the annoyed huff of her escort when it became clear that cramped quarters would leave him outside and stifled a smile.)

Once her eyes adjusted to the gloom, Clarke was face to face with the oldest grounder she’d ever laid eyes on. When the 100 were dropped on the ground, every grounder had seemed similarly young, healthy, and beautiful.

Not this woman.

She hunched over a small table, probably physically incapable of straightening her spine. Creases dripped off her face like candle wax. This woman was old, nearly as old as the Ark.

The ancient gestured to a stool and Clarke sat down, unsure of this meeting’s purpose.

“ _Oyu meika, wanheda_.” Gnarled fingers reached across the tabletop for Clarke’s hands.

Clarke complied, biting her tongue, until a surprising strength tugged her closer. Before she could muster any alarm at her rough treatment, the old grounder began a thorough inspection of each palm. She hummed as she flexed each of Clarke’s fingers, wrinkles rearranging themselves as she frowned at particular markings. Finally she sighed and sat back.

“Your hands are strange, _wanheda_. I have seen the hands of many killers, and they looked nothing like yours.” Clarke begged to differ, but didn’t interrupt the fluid Trigedasleng. She did her best to listen patiently as the crone went on and on about the precise meaning of every mark and line, but rolled her eyes internally.

The only thing that piqued her interest was the gravely intoned, “The great love of your life is with you, behind you, and before you,” but even that wasn’t enough to make her want to stay in that stuffy hut a moment longer. As soon as was polite, Clarke was thanking the palm reader and escaping back into the sunshine.

“You gonna disappear into every dark hut?” came the annoyed voice of Clarke’s escort. Bellamy leaned up against a wall that did not look sturdy enough to bear his weight, scowling at her as good-naturedly as he was capable.

She shrugged, fighting down the smile that always threatened to bloom at the sight of Bellamy. “We’re here to seal a trade alliance. It’ll pay to play nice with the locals.”

He snorted and came to sling an arm around her shoulder, before steering them back to the village center. “Learn anything?”

Clarke fought down the urge to study her hands (tools for action, not predicting the future) and instead looked up at the person she’d already known was her past, present, and future.

“Nothing new.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from "Palmistry" by Great Lakes Swimmers
> 
> slightly edited from my original submission, but, again, under 500 words.
> 
> i'd love to hear what you think!


	4. as sure as tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> March Flash Fic entry for BFF
> 
> set during "I Am Become Death"

After the explosion finally echoed through camp and the immediate worry settled, Bellamy wondered how he'd slept at all last night. Between anxiety over the approaching army and the stench of too many sick kids packed together, he wouldn't believe it if not for the hazy fever dreams that still flickered through his thoughts.

It started with Octavia. Octavia first, always; why not his dreams, too? She spoke, but another language, sounding distant and dangerous. He caught glimpses of her, leaves covering her face and hair coiled in tightly-wound braids. Then she was gone, replaced by a jittery confusion of Jaha and Dax and his mother and falling, burning corpses until Octavia reappeared, shrouded in greenery, and started the ordeal anew.

He couldn't say how often the pattern repeated, increasingly ominous and disjointed the longer it persisted, but he remembered the pure relief of its end. A nimbus of gold and ragged humming filtered through the dark visions. Water, sweet and cold, washed over brow and cheeks and neck, wiping away tears, blood, sweat. Words blanketed him: "Remember" and "need you" and "forgiveness."

Even in the throes of the fever, it was the safest Bellamy had felt in a long time. Maybe ever.

He shook himself. Forget the bridge, an army of grounders was out for blood and he couldn't afford sentimental bullshit. Bellamy stalked past the dropship but nearly froze at a familiar tune.

Inside, Clarke brushed back Monroe's hair as the girl shivered pitifully. The melody buzzed through closed lips, piercing nonetheless.

As if sensing his attention, Clarke looked up. There were a lot of things in her expression, only a few of which he could name. He turned away from them all.

 _Later_ , he told himself. _There would be time for that later_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from "Fever Dream" by Iron and Wine
> 
> how hard is 300 words and still actually creating something semi-substantial? super effing hard is the answer
> 
> drop me a line at megaphonemonday.tumblr.com if you'd like


	5. (when we're asleep) we can do almost anything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> March Flash Fic Entry for BFF
> 
> Inception AU

“Clarke, we need to go.”

Bellamy’s not wrong. Three levels into Lexa’s sleeping mind and the dreams are splintering, unstable. Lexa’s subconscious has been on to their invasion since the somnacin hit their systems. But, Clarke has never let a job go unfinished and she sure as hell isn't starting now. 

She continues ransacking the office, searching for any sign of a safe. Even in her dreams, Lexa wouldn’t leave secrets unprotected. 

“Clarke.” Bellamy’s voice is sharp, his gaze worried. 

It’s nice, she realizes. Dream-sharing with Bellamy again. After the last time, she hadn't thought she'd get another chance. She'd missed him. No matter the circumstances, Clarke wants Bellamy on her side.

That doesn't mean she's leaving, though.

"This is our only shot, Bell," the name slips out easily. "If we don't find the information to dismantle ALIE now, we'll never have another chance."

It feels like eons pass before Bellamy nods and moves to help her search. Finally, they find the sheaf of secrets stashed in a hidden wall panel. Wordlessly, Clarke hands half of the file over to Bellamy for memorization. The only permanence of dream-sharing lay within their minds.

Sooner than she'd like, the door to the office starts to rattle. Lexa's subconscious army has arrived.

Clarke looks up and Bellamy's already looking back.

"I think that's our cue."

She nods in agreement and does her best not to flinch as the floor-to-ceiling window shatters at the merest suggestion of Bellamy's mind. They step up to the yawning gap and Clarke, as always, swallows her instinctual fear. 

"Ready for the kick?" she asks, trying to keep a tremor from her voice. 

Bellamy doesn't respond, just holds out his hand. An offering. Grateful, Clarke takes it and then they're falling into another dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title straight up stolen from Inception. come at me nolan
> 
> thanks for voting me into the final round, friends! bummed i didn't win, but i loved all of the entries
> 
> as always, let me know what you think! (here or on tumblr at megaphonemonday) !!!


	6. we get to overthrow the government

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Senator Blake has a decision to make. 
> 
> dialogue only

“Monty says Twitter’s calling you a revolutionary.”

“Democracy by its very nature is revolutionary, Clarke. Do you think the founding fathers would have escaped execution if they’d lost the war?”

“Cool it, Howard Zinn. No one cares about the founding fathers.”

“A lot of people would disagree with you.”

“All right, no one cares about the founding fathers if they’re not rapping on Broadway. They’re still a bunch of old, dead, white guys.”

“And fuck old, dead, white guys.”

“Damn straight.”

“I’m pretty sure a good campaign manager doesn’t let her candidate for President of the United States disparage American history like that. Never know who’s listening.”

“Oh, you think you’re the next Watergate, huh?”

“Twitter is calling me a revolutionary.”

“About that.”

“Watergate or my questionable status as a revolutionary?”

“Being your campaign manager.”

“No.”

“Senator—“

“I’m ‘Senator’ now, am I?”

“We’re discussing a matter of business. It’s only appropriate that I call you that.”

“But I like what you were calling me last night so much more.”

“Senator Blake!”

“Ms. Griffin!”

“We can’t do this. You have to decide if you’d rather have me be your campaign manager or…”

“In my bed?”

“Hopefully more than that.”

“It worked for Ben and Leslie.”

“You and I both know Parks and Recreation is not an accurate model of the world. For one thing, it had a Libertarian who wasn’t completely terrible.”

“Very true.”

“You can’t deflect me. I’m the one who taught you that. You need to pick.“

“I want both. I want to be President. I think I could do so much good for this country, but I don’t want to do it without you.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to. No matter what you decide, we’ll do it together. But, I can only occupy one of your lives: campaign or personal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because of who i am as a person, i procrastinated too much on Spring Fling and didn't have time to do the flashfic contest. But I really liked the prompt, so i wrote one anyway. Then decided that I needed to focus on dialogue because i like narration too much. This is what happened.
> 
> Let me know what you think here or at megaphonemonday on tumblr as always. (please!)


	7. no one writes letters anymore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> texting is the new letter writing
> 
> honorable mention (!!!!) bellarkefanfiction's May flash fic contest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, i suggest making your browser pretty skinny for readability? but it's your call

Today 10:34 PM

 

go eat a bag of dicks,  
bellamy

 

aw, come on princess.  
don’t be mad that i beat  
you at trivia.

 

i’ll be mad about whatever  
i want to be mad about.

and don’t be so smug. i  
beat you last week

 

I had murphy on my team  
last week

 

Murphy knows stuff

 

criminal stuff

 

That counts.

 

Besides didn’t you say  
“You and your team of  
losers can suck it” last  
week?

 

… 

i don’t recall.

 

you calling me smug  
seems an awful like a pot  
and kettle situation.

 

ugh, that wasn’t smug.   
that was me being an  
asshole

 

oh, my mistake

 

damn straight.

 

you know

 

???

 

we don’t have to get into  
these arguments every  
week

 

What? you think i’m gonna   
be nice to you when you  
steal my shot at the battle  
of champions

 

when?

 

If. IF.

Shut up.

 

whatever you say, clarke.

but i was thinking.  
wouldn’t it be better if we  
combined teams? no one  
would have a chance  
against us.

 

and give up the chance   
to trash talk each other  
every week?

 

maybe i want to just  
normal talk

 

oh really 

that’s not really how we operate

 

maybe it could be. with a  
little practice.

 

practice?

 

yeah.

we could start by going  
out to dinner this  
weekend.

together.

 

Today 11:23 PM 

 

clarke?

i shouldn’t have said  
anything, i’m sorry.

just forget i said anything.  
it was a stupid idea. i’m  
sorry. i don’t want to  
make you uncomfortable.  
we’ll just pretend this  
never happened all right? 

 

Today 11:35 PM

 

open your door, asshole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i've got three iterations of the formatting, and i hate all of them??
> 
> But thank you to everyone who voted for this fic over on bellarkefanfiction!! it was apparently a close race, so thank you for making my day!
> 
> anyway, let me know what you think because i'm ??? as always, here or on tumblr @megaphonemonday


	8. Sun's Out, Guns Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the thirst is unreal
> 
> for bellarkefanfiction's May flash fic contest

Spring has hit in full force. One week in and requests to have class outside, sunbathing, and tank tops have already taken over campus.

The last is giving Clarke problems.

If anyone ever told her that a bro tank would cause her academic downfall, she’d have been indignant. Clarke Griffin does not go for guys in bro tanks. Or girls in bro tanks, for that matter.

But. Well. She’s only human.

And the expanse of tan, freckled arms on display courtesy of that tank? Enough to drive anyone to distraction.

“Miss Griffin?”

That snaps her into focus. She manages to hold back an inarticulate “Huh?” and offers her professor an inquisitive look instead.

“Another name for the narrative structure of Frankenstein?”

“A multiple narrative?"

“Yes, that’s the name I gave.” Clarke flushes at the dry tone. “Perhaps Mr. Blake has been paying more attention.”

Ridiculous-Arms-Guy stretches and Clarke’s mouth doesn't go dry watching muscles flex. “An epistolary narrative." He says something more about Walton and bookends, but all Clarke can hear is smug superiority.

Thankfully, class ends before Clarke can embarrass herself further and she hurries to pack her bag and escape.

“Distracted?” The smugness hasn’t quite faded from his voice, but Clarke can overlook that with the view she's suddenly been gifted.

Ridiculous-Arms-Guy is way hotter when she can see his face. Even with his stupid shirt proclaiming, "We're called history buffs for a reason," he's criminally good looking.

Before she can answer, he smirks and offers his hand. "I'm Bellamy. You wanna get outta here? I'll even share my notes since it seems like you had other things on your mind."

Really, that cockiness shouldn't work for her, but it's not like she isn't gonna take him up on his offer anyway.

Because. Well. She's only human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't think i didn't smush as many words in there as possible by using contractions because i definitely did
> 
> but how couldn't i write a fic about how much clarke likes bellamy's arms?? 
> 
> let me know what you thought! I love hearing from everyone, even if i'm mostly bad at responding. drop me a review here or a message at megaphonemonday on tumblr


	9. where the heart is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for bff's September Flash Fic Contest
> 
> prompt: home

“You know, we’ll get back faster if you don’t drive us into a ditch.“ 

Bellamy ignored Miller. So what if he was driving faster than usual? So what if he wanted to get back to civilization after three weeks of roughing it?

They’d radioed camp yesterday as soon as they were in range. No, no issues. Yes, the last nuclear reactor was offline. Fine, plan a party.

Realistically, Bellamy knew the party was already underway. 

Realistically, the party wasn’t the reason for his lead foot. 

Clarke was supposed to be on this mission. But Roan had appeared just as they were leaving, claiming he needed the Wanheda. It took all of Bellamy’s willpower not to rush the Ice King; using that name to demand her help. Just a glance from Clarke, though, and that fire dissipated. Silently, reluctantly, they decided. Clarke would go with Roan and Bellamy would lead this last mission.

It was harder than he imagined: watching Clarke go. And it wasn’t until he saw her, safe at the campfire, that he realized he hadn’t been sure she’d return. Then, she caught sight of him and her whole face lit up. 

“You’re back!” Bellamy was faced with an armful of Clarke. There had been more hugs since that night on the beach, but each time, he couldn’t quite believe they were real. This felt real. The smell of campfire smoke and the astringent tang of moonshine wafted off her hair when he tucked his face close to her neck. 

Clarke settled more firmly against him, not ready to let go. “Welcome home,” she murmured right into the skin of his collarbone, breath curling into the cool night.

 _Home_ , he thought, arms tightening around her until she let out a quiet sigh.  _Yeah, that sounds right._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slight line break edit from what i submitted


	10. Good Game. Screw You. Good Game.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for bff's September Flash Fic Contest
> 
> prompt: home

“Did not!”

“Did, too!”

If anyone had told Bellamy that at twenty-nine, he'd be arguing over a game of kickball, he'd have laughed off a good joke. The arguing, fine. But kickball? His dignity drew the line well before adult kickball.

Unfortunately, Octavia couldn't care less about his dignity.

He crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at the little, blonde spitfire glaring up at him. Clarke Griffin hadn’t changed much since high school: still too easy to wind up. “You never touched home. I tagged you. You’re out.”

“Of course I touched home!” she fumed, cheeks flushed and fantastic chest heaving. (What? He had eyes.) “That’s the point of the game. A game my team is winning because I. Touched. Home.”

“Low,” Bellamy scoffed. “Cheating just to win at kickball?”

“How dare you! I'm not cheating! Raven, tell him I’m not cheating!”

Someone pulled her back and play resumed. The rest of the game, Bellamy couldn't suppress the delighted smirk lurking at the corners of his mouth.

Unremarkably, because Octavia's team was terrible, they lost by a whopping twelve runs. A definite blow to Bellamy’s competitive ego, but when it meant Clarke sauntered over to gloat, he’d survive.

"Is this where you admit you were wrong?"

It took him a minute to reply because the late summer sun was working magic on Clarke's hair. "Nah," he finally got out. "Isn't it enough that you won?"

She scrunched her nose in thought before shaking her head. "Nope. Not until we win the championship. Get used to losing."

"Big words for someone who can't even step on home plate."

"Oh, you're going down," she promised, stomping away.

"Gladly!" he called after her, delighting in the falter in her step.

Okay, maybe his dignity could take some more kickball.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slight change from what i initially submitted, but still under 300 words. That's still so hard for me, i usually end up with 350-400 and have to agonize over what to cut. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who voted for this!


	11. check this box for "yes"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BFF October Flash Fic Contest, prompt: freedom, High School AU

Bellamy isn’t sure what’s happening. To be fair, as an eighteen-year-old boy, that isn’t unusual. Weird, inexplicable shit happens all the time and he ignores it. That’s just high school.

Not the case right now.

Because right now, Bellamy is clearing out a locker he’s never actually used. It should be empty. It’s not. He sighs in disgust. Whoever had it last year must not have thrown away their loose leaf. He gathers the offending stack, prepared to toss it and write it off as one last goodbye from high school, but something catches his eye. Scrawled across the folded sheet is his name. They all have his name.

As he shuffles through the paper, he immediately recognizes the handwriting. He doesn’t get a chance to connect all the dots because suddenly the author is there. Staring in horror at the notes in his hand.

He holds up a note: _Freedom lies in being bold._ “You know, princess, it’s pretty hypocritical to tell me to be bold and then hide behind anonymous notes.“

Clarke flushes, but her chin tips up stubbornly. “Well, I wasn’t the one harboring a secret crush.”

 _How did she know that?_ he wonders, before swiftly concluding: _Octavia._ He really needed to stop trusting his sister to keep her mouth shut.

“Oh, really?” he asks, refusing to be embarrassed. Who wouldn’t have a crush on Clarke Griffin? “That’s not what these notes tell me.”

“No?”

“Nope. If anything, I think this crush was pretty mutual.” He can’t help himself. He looks at her lips, somehow much closer than they’d been at the start of this conversation.

She smiles and Bellamy’s stomach flip flops at the force of it. “I knew you’d figure it out,” she leans in, murmuring one last thing before she closes the gap, “eventually.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do you know how hard it is to find a jumping off point for "freedom" on the internet? so many bad opinions in the world :/
> 
> what are the worst opinions you've heard lately? let me know here or on [tumblr](http://www.megaphonemonday.tumblr.com)!


	12. a place to stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BFF October Flash Fic Contest, prompt: freedom, future canon
> 
> Title from "Motorcycle Mama," which, yes, is a real song that exists in the world.

Clarke wanted nothing to do with the Rover.

Protocol demanded otherwise.

No one was allowed out on excursions without being able to to operate the thing—even in peace, it was hard not to prepare for the worst—so Clarke grudgingly learned, but she didn’t enjoy it the way Raven did. Honestly, it made her anxious. Steering the Rover was not the same as controlling the heavy, unwieldy machine. Any number of mechanisms could fail and Clarke would have as much control over the vehicle as she would over an avalanche.

“Try and relax,” murmured Bellamy, that first lesson.

Clarke’s shoulders inched away from her ears, but they didn’t drop to anything like their usual position. She hunched forward in the seat, gaze flicking left and right as she vigilantly watched for obstacles.

Bellamy huffed a laugh and she flicked him a poisonous glare, only softening at the smile on his face. She hadn’t seen it often. Then, the Rover jerked under her hands and Clarke had to wrench her eyes away, back to the path.

No, driving just wasn’t for Clarke.

Well, not until Raven reinvented the motorcycle.

Clarke was a big enough person to admit when she was wrong, but she would maintain that driving the Rover and driving Raven’s first motorbike could not be put in the same category.

The motorcycle was responsive in ways the Rover couldn’t dream of. The way it handled, the speed, the wind rushing all around: it was pure freedom. The kind of freedom Clarke had wanted in those months between the Mountain and Polis. She wouldn’t have guessed that she’d have to go back home for a chance at it.

(And, well, if the only way for Bellamy to ride along was pressed up against her back, Clarke wouldn’t complain.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're not thinking of Bellamy wrapped around Clarke as they ride a motorcycle, now, I don't know what to tell you.
> 
> let me know what you thought here or on [tumblr](http://www.megaphonemonday.tumblr.com)!


	13. we should count time by heart-throbs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for bff December flash fic competition, prompt: breathe

On the Ark, after they floated her father and threw her into solitary, Clarke started counting her breaths. It was a way to pass time, when she’d run out of charcoal and couldn’t stand to sleep another minute.

 

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six…_

 

She’d count each inhale and exhale and know that each one sent the station’s life support systems teetering closer and closer to total meltdown.

 

Whether or not it did the same to her was debatable.

 

When she was dropped to the ground, Clarke counted, too. Her boots sunk into the fresh earth and she inhaled.

 

_One._

 

That was it. Just one breath in and Clarke reveled in the fact that she never again had to worry about her home suffocating her, slow and inexorable.

 

What she didn’t realize was that this new home had far crueler ways to kill her.

 

She knows that now, though. She’s all too familiar with earth’s indifferent brutality. Which is why it’s so amazing she gets this.

 

Clarke’s head rises and falls with the rhythm of Bellamy’s breath. His heart pounds beneath her ear and his lungs expand and deflate in a steady counterpoint.

 

She counts. Can’t help herself. His every breath feels like a hard won miracle.

 

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six…_

 

Eventually, though, long after she’s passed any kind of record she kept for herself, even in her darkest days in the Sky Box, Bellamy’s hand tangles in her hair. She loses count. “Go to sleep,” he murmurs, fingertips tracing soothing patterns into her scalp. “Promise I’ll still be here in the morning.”

 

Because she’s incapable of anything other than absolute trust in him, she listens. Only concentrates on his breathing to let it lull her into dreaming.


End file.
